Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (77)

I drive the Wrangler through the open gate of the compound and park just outside the empty. There’s another car parked on the opposite side of the lot: a shiny red Ferrari SF90 Spider with all the fixings. Maxim has never been a fan of subtlety.

Rolling my eyes, I climb out and head inside. There doesn’t seem to be a soul around.

I climb the darkened stairway to the second floor. Downstairs was dark and dank, but up here, light pours through the square factory windows that line the west-facing walls. The panes have rusted and some of the windows are broken. Nothing seems out of place.

“Isaak,” comes a voice.

At the far end of the wide-open space, Maxim steps out from behind a large pillar.

He’s dressed similarly to me, which means I can’t tell if he’s concealing a weapon underneath his clothes. I take a few steps forward to gauge his reaction.

He tenses and I can’t help but smile. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of me, cousin?”

My voice echoes in the emptied factory. Maxim’s eyes narrow. I notice he’s bulked up considerably since I’ve last seen him. He was always a scrawny kid, so the extra muscles make him look like a blow-up doll that’s been inflated a little too much.

“I’ve never been scared of you,” Maxim hisses.

I laugh. “Really? Last time you tried to start a fight with me, you ended up hiding underneath your bed when I came to settle the score.”

“I was eight.”

“So was I.”

He grinds his teeth together. His eyes flare with resentment. “Those days are over, cousin,” he snarls. “I’m not eight anymore and I’m definitely not scared of you.”

“Does that mean you’ve come without a weapon?” I ask, cornering him.

He controls his body this time, but not his eyes. He gives himself away with a single fucking blink. “Of course.”

I pretend to believe the lie. I know the inevitable conclusion of this meeting, but I don’t want to speed the process up. Not before we’ve had a chance to talk.

“How’s Bogdan?” Maxim asks.

I smile. “We can do away with the pleasantries.”

“Fine,” Maxim snaps.

We circle closer and closer to each other, winding between the row of steel pillars that runs down the dead center of the warehouse floor.

He doesn’t just look bulkier—he looks taller than I remember, too. Then I glance at this designer Armani shoes, only to realize he’s got a half-inch wedge at the heel.

“Nice shoes,” I chuckle. “I bet those are great for reaching the top shelf.” I know I’m goading him, but fuck it—it’s worth it to see the enraged twitch on his face.

“How is she?” he asks, deftly changing the topic.

“Well-looked after.”

Maxim slowly retreats towards the bank of windows. I follow, matching him step for step and maintaining the distance between us. I wonder where he has his backup hiding. Somehow, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t told them to keep a mile’s radius.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I shrug. “Let’s just say that no woman likes being lied to.”

“Then why would she stay with you?”

I laugh. “I never lied to her. Right from the beginning, she knew my real name. And if we’d had more time that night, she would have known what I did, too.”

“That right there is a fucking lie. You were involved with her long before that night. Why claim otherwise?”

“Because it’s the truth. That night was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on her.”

“So you just walked about to a random woman, sight unseen, and decided to protect her with your life? I call bullshit. Why?”

“She was an itch I needed to scratch.”

He shakes his head like I’m pitiful. “Then give her back to me.”

I scoff. “Not likely.”

“Why?”

“Because you want her back,” I say simply. “And I’m not about to give you anything you want. Not after what you did.”

“Vitaly killed my father. Did you think I would just let that go? Bow and scrape and give him the respect owed to a don when I knew what he did to become one?”

Guilt—it’s a fucking inconvenient feeling. And it makes this meeting more complicated than it needs to be. But as Bogdan said, it changes nothing.

“Very well,” I say. “My father killed yours. And you killed mine. That would make us even.”

Maxim raises his eyebrows. “Even?” he balks. “How the hell do you figure that?”

“You are still my cousin, Maxim. We are family, if nothing else. I’m prepared to end this feud between us now.”

He looks stunned. Understandable, given my reputation. I’m not one for ending feuds with peace. My answer has always been strength and blood. In this instance, though, I’m willing to explore an alternative route.

“You… you’ll give me back the Bratva?”

Perhaps not.

I stare at my cousin, wondering how a man as thick as he is could share the same blood as me.

“Give you back the Bratva?” I repeat. “I’m not offering you anything of the sort. The only thing I’m offering you is an end to the war between us. You get to keep your life and your breakaway little empire.”